An introduction

As a young South African woman, my journey in martial arts has not been easy. From unknowingly being in an adulterous relationship with my capoeira academy’s Mestre while his partner was living on the other side of the world, to being expelled from that same academy for speaking out against the abuses of power that kept that relationship secret after her arrival; from being sexually assaulted by my subsequent Mestra’s partner, to enduring countless experiences of unwanted advances from male counterparts: my persistence to train, learn and grow in capoeira has felt like being at war, tested treacherously time and time again.

My experiences are not unique. The more women I met in capoeira and, later, jiu-jitsu – in South Africa, and in my travels to Brazil – the more incidents of harassment and assault I became aware of – perpetrated by teachers, ‘high-ranking’ students, sponsors and fellow training partners. The more incidents I became aware of, the more the silence around this issue became apparent. Conversations around the treatment of women in martial arts spaces are little to none, or, at best, siloed. At worst, these incidents result in the woman who is experiencing discriminatory treatment leaving her place of training or even her sport/practice entirely, often having to stomach being blamed for her situation, while the perpetrator remains supported by peers, and continues training.

The truth of the matter is these experiences aren’t isolated to martial arts spaces. The world of martial arts is only an extension of the realities of the outside world. While the martial arts can be transformative, they are not free from the pervasive plague of gender-based discrimination and violence.

For many women who train, compete, and seek to excel in their practice, our academies and gyms are places we frequent daily. They are places that become home to significant moments of personal growth, they are the home ground of our dreams, determination and achievements, they house friendships and mentorships whose impacts spill out into other areas of our lives. Training schedules and competition dates become what our world revolves around.

So on the day I was expelled from the academy that housed my friendships, that harboured my dreams and paved my growth, my world crumbled. My hopes felt lost and irretrievable. In the week following the incident of sexual assault by my Mestra’s partner (on the day it happened I did not want to believe it), I knew it was the end of a leg of my journey to which I could never return to continue. Having to go through yet another battle made me want to give up the war. For many women training in the martial arts, while the extent to which we invest our time and aspirations in our practice would otherwise be our greatest virtue, it is also what makes us most vulnerable when incidents that compromise our dignity are prevalent. Often these incidents force us to separate ourselves from the martial art we practise, and sets us back years of training. For some, the separation becomes permanent.

In the African context, the world of each martial arts discipline is small and, more often than not, riddled with politics. Furthermore, through national and regional competitions, and open events and workshops, everyone knows everyone else. This makes it difficult for a woman, when confronted by a situation that no longer makes her feel safe at her gym or academy, to leave and represent another. And even if she were to do so, it is even more difficult for her to leave the story that strips her of dignity at the door.

How do we create an environment that enables women practitioners to take ownership of their spaces of training, competition and association? How do we generate a martial arts culture of authentic empowerment that melts away the normality of discrimination and harassment? How do we ensure that the martial arts spaces in which we practise are transformative of our experiences as women beyond those spaces, in society? I write these questions as a means to contribute to some of the conversations that are already happening in South Africa and on the African continent. But more importantly, I write in the hope that we are no longer silent on the experiences we have and the challenges we face consistently, as women, as athletes, and as martial arts practitioners. I write because silence only serves to perpetuate the problem at hand, and there came a time for me when my own silence was betrayal. May we find our voices. May we grow in strength. And may we do these things together.

Thank you for your thoughts, Chris. It is the silence around the prevalence of such experiences that motivated my need to take action. I haven’t thought about sharing this piece on other media platforms, thank you for the recommendation, will certainly consider it.